22 A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO. 



When able to listen to something besides song 

 sparrows, I realized that from the trees in front of 

 me was coming the rippling merry song of a wren. 

 Wrens are always interesting, droll, individual 

 little scraps, and having found their nests in 

 sycamore holes before, I let my horse, Mountain 

 Billy, graze nearer to the tree from which the 

 sound came. Before long the small brown pair 

 flew away together across the oat field that spread 

 out from the mouth of the canyon. While they 

 were gone, I took the opportunity to inspect the 

 tree, and found a large hole with twigs sticking 

 out suggestively. Presently, back flew one of the 

 wrens with more building material. But this line 

 of sycamores was off from the highway, and the 

 bird was not used to prying equestrians ; so when 

 she found Mountain Billy and me planted in front 

 of her door, she doubted the wisdom of showing 

 us that it was her door. Chattering nervously, 

 she would back and fill, flying all but to the door 

 and then flitting off again. She could not make 

 up her mind to go inside. But soon her mate 

 came and unmindful of visitors, ardent little 

 lover that he was sang to her so gayly that it 

 put her in heart ; and before I knew it she had 

 slipped into the tree. 



Here was a nest, at last, right over my eye. 

 To encourage myself while waiting for something 

 to happen, I began a list with the heading NESTS, 

 when something caught my eye overhead, and 



